


Stop the Sun in the Sky

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Aging, Balor's Needle, Bazhir, Friendship, Gen, Honor, King's Champion, Knight & Squire, Nepotism, Politics, Racism, Sexism, adjustments, changes, power, resignation, sunset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Since none can stop the sun in the sky, Zahir and Jonathan must make adjustments. Spoiler for Spy Guide.





	Stop the Sun in the Sky

Stop the Sun in the Sky

“Your Majesty’s most humble vassal has arrived per your summons.” Despite his self-effacing words, Zahir felt prideful as he finished climbing Balor’s Needle with breath enough to speak. Most men would have been winded by the seemingly endless spiral of steps. “Somehow I doubt you’ve requested my presence for the pleasure of my company.” 

Zahir was confident making this assertion since King Jonathan sought solitude more than company when he stood atop Balor’s Needle. One of the many things Zahir had learned when squiring for the king was that he often retreated to this lofty vantage when he needed to survey a problem from a distance. 

“Is it so unbelievable that I might find pleasure in your company, Zahir?” King Jonathan raised a graying eyebrow as Zahir joined him at the railing. 

“Few take pleasure in my company, sire.” Zahir’s smirk was obscured by the hair swept into his face by the gale that slapped his cheeks into blazing embers. On the ground, it had been a breezy afternoon on the cusp of evening, but this high in the air, he feared being lifted over the balustrade by the wind. The view, which let Zahir see with vulture eyes, compensated for the wind. The river Olorun twisted like a snake through Corus, which from this far above, appeared too small to matter, and the trees in the Royal Forest resembled broccoli to be speared with a dinner fork. Staring down at the vast expanse of land stretched below him, he wondered if this was what it felt like to be a god. Rather than empowering, the notion was terrifying. 

King Jonathan hadn’t replied but there was a wry curl to his lips that encouraged Zahir to continue, inspired by the view, “They say on a cloudless day you can see clear to the southern desert from atop Balor’s Needle.” 

“An unfounded rumor, I’m afraid.” King Jonathan smiled slightly. “Even from up here, you can’t see that far without a scrying glass.” 

Zahir had studied scrying glasses and how high ground was the ideal location for peering through them as a page, but it had been King Jonathan, who had shared so much knowledge with him, who had been the one to teach him that Balor’s Needle had been built by the Contes centuries ago to allow battle mages to more easily practice their craft. The king might have made Balor’s Needle a place of contemplation but it had been constructed to wage warfare. 

“Speaking of rumors”—King Jonathan’s tone alerted Zahir more effectively than a watch beacon lit by a sentry that he was finally mentioning the reason he had summoned Zahir to this lonely tower at twilight—“you might have heard one about Sir Alanna.” 

Zahir bristled as he always did when Sir Alanna, an abomination whose very title proved how she had distorted her gender, was dragged into any conversation. 

“I don’t gossip about Sir Alanna, Your Majesty.” Zahir clung to his dignity as he did to the hard iron railing beneath his fingertips. His respect for the man who had been his knightmaster was strong enough to ensure that his scorn for Sir Alanna remained in his mind and heart but never left his mouth. 

“You may not gossip about her, but you’d have to be buried under six feet of solid bedrock not to have heard this rumor.” The king pinched his furrowing forehead that now had wrinkles that never faded unlike when Zahir was his squire. “Sir Alanna has resigned from her post as King’s Champion.” 

Zahir had heard this and rejoiced inwardly at the news, but, gazing into his king’s eyes that weren’t bright but dull with loss, he felt compelled to say, “I’m sorry, sire. I know she was a friend of yours.” 

He spoke as if Sir Alanna had died, but perhaps part of her —the King’s Champion— had and that along with his own aging was what the king was mourning. Fleeting time paused for no man, even a monarch. 

“She will enjoy her retirement as Duke Gareth before her has, I believe.” King Jonathan went on as if he hadn’t heard the comment it had cost Zahir so much to make. “Meanwhile I must find a new champion. Will you do me the honor of filling that role?” 

Zahir should have been flattered—-his status as a swordsman and hero of the Scanran War who had slain killing devices before becoming the youngest knight assigned to the detail of protecting the Crown Prince, a task flinty General haMinch entrusted only to warriors he had absolute faith in, was vindicated—but instead he was frowning. “You do realize, Your Majesty, that you are allowed to select as champion someone who didn’t serve as your squire?” 

“Yes.” King Jonathan’s expression suggested that he was torn between amusement and bafflement at Zahir’s response to the honor that had been extended to him. “My squires have proven so adept at championing me, though. Why should I turn to anyone else?” 

“Because people will claim it’s nepotism.” Zahir snorted, thinking that he didn’t need to squint at soggy tea leaves to predict what the courtiers would complain when they discovered that Zahir had been appointed King’s Champion. “Especially since I’m a Bazhir.” 

“You’re a hero of the Scanran War. People must understand that you’ve earned your position as my champion should you accept it.” King Jonathan’s jaw clenched with resolve, and Zahir sensed that the king was relying on Zahir’s heroic status to convince the court that it was time to embrace a Bazhir champion. 

“Did I?” Zahir’s fingers tightened around the cold iron railing until his knuckles were white instead of dusky. “Or is my chief recommendation the fact that I’m a Bazhir?” 

“Your valor and fighting prowess merit you this post, but it’s also important that the Bazhir be integrated into all ranks of the realm.” King Jonathan’s words weren’t exactly an answer but were the closest Zahir would ever receive to one. 

“I don’t wish to be a symbol.” Zahir scowled, hating the burden the king was always thrusting upon him to be an emblem of all his people who were as many as the grains of sand in the desert they inhabited. 

“You are whether you wish to be or not.” King Jonathan’s lips were a blade that cut Zahir’s present from his future, dividing his life into a was and a will be. “Do you accept my offer or will you abandon me in my hour of need?” 

“I’d never abandon you in your hour of need, Your Majesty.” Zahir bowed although he had the nagging suspicion that he was being manipulated. 

“Good.” King Jonathan’s eyes pierced through him to the sun that was starting to set, staining the changing world a blood orange. “The hour grows late, and, as the ancient Bazhir proverb says, none of us can stop the sun in the sky as it sinks below the horizon.” 

It was a melancholy musing but Zahir had never been a fatalist, so he countered crisply, “That doesn’t prevent us from burning our hands when we try to do so, sire.” 

King Jonathan did not argue the point, so Zahir stood in the dying light of the sun and reflected as day waned into night that if neither of them could stop time, they could at least capture this moment together.


End file.
